


Explosions And Traditions

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds Fireworks Night tough to deal with. Sherlock helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Explosions And Traditions

Inside Baker Street, the bangs of the fireworks are muffled enough to be vaguely similar to artillery shells and John can't stop himself from twitching every time one goes off particularly close. It's nothing like being back in a field hospital in Afghanistan but somehow he still keeps thinking that a nurse is going to run in at any minute and tell him he's needed urgently in surgery. He's got the telly on just a bit too loud, trying to drown the explosions out, but it's not even close to enough of a distraction.

Sherlock is hunched over his laptop, apparently oblivious to everything that isn't on the screen. John's not even sure that he knows there's anything that makes November 5th stand out from any other night – it wouldn't be a huge surprise to find that Guy Fawkes is just as much of a black spot as the solar system.

Somewhere particularly close by, a rocket whistles up and then explodes. John flinches and then hates himself. This is ridiculous. Fireworks don't even sound all that much like the sounds you get in a modern warzone.

“Tea,” announces Sherlock suddenly.

“What?” asks John, caught off-guard.

“We need tea,” clarifies Sherlock.

John blinks at him. “Are you offering to make some?” he asks, without much hope. The look Sherlock gives him is withering and John nods with resignation and pulls himself out of his chair. He'd put up more of a fight, if only to stop Sherlock getting too complacent about using him as a glorified servant, but to be honest, he could use the distraction.

It helps a little, right up until he opens the fridge and finds that, yet again, the milk has mysteriously disappeared.

“Do you bathe in it or something?” he asks, trusting that Sherlock will know what he's talking about.

Sherlock doesn't look up from his laptop. “The shop should still be open,” he says.

John scowls at the top of his head and grumpily pulls his coat off the hook. He's really not looking forward to going outside, but he's not about to let a few fireworks stop him getting his tea.

That lasts right up until he opens the front door and is confronted by a faint haze of smoke and the chokingly familiar stench of gunpowder. For a horrifying moment he's right back in the village where he was shot, running towards the cry of 'medic' with the echo of gunfire in his ears. He's frozen still for a very long moment with even his breath halted, then he slams the door shut again. Mrs. Hudson will lend him a cup of milk for now and he can buy more tomorrow.

When he comes upstairs, carefully carrying the milk, Sherlock actually deigns to look up. He looks over John's body, lingering on the stiffness in his leg, then frowns slightly. John scowls at him. “Tea won't be long,” he says, trying to derail whatever cutting observation Sherlock is about to make.

Either it works or John had misjudged Sherlock's expressions, because he just nods and then looks back down at his computer. John goes into the kitchen and makes the tea, trying to ignore the shake in his hand and the phantom ache of his leg. _It's all in your head,_ he reminds himself as he settles back down in front of the TV with his tea. _And you're meant to be getting better._ It doesn't feel like it, though. Right now it feels like he's fresh back in London, scars still healing and his nerves constantly on edge. He hates feeling this weak.

Sherlock waits until John has swallowed the last drops of his tea, then puts his laptop to one side. “We're going out,” he says, standing up.

“You might be,” replies John, staying where he is. “I'm perfectly comfortable here and it's cold outside.”

“It's vital that you come,” says Sherlock, pulling John's coat off the hook and throwing it at him. “Get up.”

“Come where?” asks John, pushing his coat off himself and onto the sofa. “You haven't said anything about this before – Top Gear's on soon.”

“This is far more important than Top Gear,” says Sherlock with disdain. He's pulling his own coat on with quick, focused movements. “It's a tradition, and I want you to come.”

The idea of Sherlock honouring any traditions is a little difficult to comprehend. “What is it?” asks John.

“You'll only find out if you come,” says Sherlock.

John glances out of the window again at the distant flashes and lets out a careful breath. Sherlock is incredibly private in many ways, and any clue into what he might consider worth keeping as a tradition is extremely tempting, but John's not sure he's up to going out there. It's bad enough knowing that Sherlock had almost certainly observed at least some of his tension tonight without displaying his weakness in front of him on a public street.

Sherlock's fully dressed now and crosses the room to put a hand on John's shoulder. “Please, John,” he says quietly, and that's enough to get John moving. He's only ever heard Sherlock ask for something in that tone of voice a handful of times – one of which was just after the first time they kissed, when John was still frozen with shock and trying to comprehend the enormity of what the brush of their lips had meant. _Please don't run from this, John._

He pulls his coat on then hesitates, thinking of the brief glimpse he'd had of the night outside. It really had been cold, he hadn't been lying about that. He's going to need more layers. Sherlock tuts impatiently as John pulls a scarf around his neck and settles a hat on his head. He probably looks slightly ridiculous, but he's never really been one for worrying about how fashionable he looks, and there's something vaguely comforting about layers of knitwear. It feels a little like being a child on Bonfire Night, all wrapped up in as many layers as possible and holding on to a sparkler in an awkward, glove-engulfed fist.

“Come on,” says Sherlock impatiently when John spares a moment to glance at his stick, wondering if he should take it along, just in case. Sherlock grabs his hand before he can reach for it and pulls him towards the door. “No need for that, I'll keep you on your feet.”

John allows himself to be dragged downstairs, but can't help hesitating when Sherlock opens the front door. The smell of gunpowder only seems to have got stronger. He has visions of having some kind of mental breakdown in public and Sherlock losing his patience and just leaving him to it, sick of John's mental weakness.

“No time to waste,” says Sherlock and pulls him outside, slamming the door behind them.

It's not as bad as John had thought. Out in the open he can see that the explosions are fireworks, bright lights flashing over head in bright patterns that are nothing like weaponry, although he can't help flinching at some of the closest bangs.

Sherlock tucks their arms together and guides him down Baker Street towards Regent's Park. “We should just make it, if we hurry,” he says.

“Where?” asks John, trying not to break into a jog to keep up with Sherlock's stride. Damn him and his long legs.

He doesn't get an answer, of course. Sherlock just glances at him for a moment, then up at the night sky. They can just see the edge of the main display down by the Thames over the rooftops, and there seems to be at least two other displays going on closer to them, although they're mainly hidden by the buildings.

“It's all chemicals, of course,” says Sherlock after a particularly vibrant green-blue shower of sparks.

“I know,” replies John, feeling the shake in his hand increase as a rocket goes shrieking up somewhere unseen.

“Incredibly intricate, of course,” continues Sherlock as if John hadn't spoken. “You have to arrange them just right to get an effect like that.”

A group of teenagers burst out of a side road, screaming with laughter and carrying sparklers. John's suddenly shot back to a road near Kabul where they'd been ambushed and twitches violently, then stumbles slightly as a shooting pain travels down his leg. Sherlock catches him, taking a firmer grip on his arm, and John grits his teeth. He really needs to get it together.

Sherlock continues talking as if nothing has happened. “I tried to make some when I was a teenager, but it's not really something you can do without specialist equipment.” John focusses on his voice and pulls himself together, sticking his chin out and concentrating on ignoring the pain in his leg. “The resulting fire was very pretty, even if Mycroft did make a dreadful fuss about it. Really, he had too many things anyway, he could afford to lose some of them.” They've reached the park, and Sherlock guides John down one of the paths without breaking his stride. “And the structural integrity of the house wasn't affected at all.”

The fireworks were easier to see in the park, without the buildings blocking out the sky, and John glances up as a red burst flowers over the sky, and then actually realises what Sherlock's been saying.

“Wait, sorry,” he says. “You tried to make fireworks and set fire to the house? Jesus, Sherlock!”

“I was just experimenting,” protests Sherlock as if that's the only excuse he needs. In his head, it probably is.

“You are never allowed to experiment with fireworks in the flat,” says John firmly. “Or anything else flammable, for that matter.”

Sherlock sighs long-sufferingly. “I wouldn't,” he says. “I rather like our belongings.”

John snorts. “If that was enough to stop you, we wouldn't have an acid burn in the middle of our rug,” he points out.

They're passing through a copse of trees, and when they emerge, Sherlock trying to protest that the acid was an accident and besides, it's Mrs. Hudson's rug rather than theirs, John stops still. There's a large crowd of people all pressed up against a taped off area of grassland where dark figures holding torches can be seen darting about.

“Here we are,” says Sherlock and John turns to stare at him.

“We're here to watch a firework display?” he asks incredulously.

“Of course,” says Sherlock, pulling him forward to join the crowd. “It's Guy Fawkes Night, didn't you know?”

John glances over at where the figures are clearly preparing to start soon. “I'm not sure this is a good idea,” he says slowly.

“It's a brilliant idea,” corrects Sherlock. “After all, it was my idea.”

John gives him a eye-rolling look for that bit of arrogance, but allows himself to be manoeuvred into what Sherlock has clearly deduced to be the optimum place to watch from, Sherlock standing slightly behind him to avoid blocking John's view with his height. There's another few minutes before they start and John can feel tension beginning to churn in his gut. There's a series of rattling bangs from somewhere over towards Notting Hill and he flinches, tucking his head down into his scarf as if it would be able to protect him.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John from behind, pulling him back against his chest as if merely to keep him warm. John relaxes gratefully back into him, resting his hands on top of Sherlock's and using the touch of his body to ground himself, just as the fireworks began.

They're loud and close, but with the colours exploding overhead John finds himself a lot better able to cope with them, especially when Sherlock leans forward just as a particularly vibrant green shower of sparks rains down and says quietly, “It's barium that makes it green.”

John watches a cascade of red stars. “Which chemical caused the fire?”

He can feel Sherlock's scowl against his ear. “Magnesium. A bit more volatile than I expected.”

They stay pressed together throughout the whole display. Sherlock's body is warm and comforting behind John, the feel of his arms as familiar as an old jumper, and by the time the finale has gone off, John has completely forgotten any comparison between this moment and anything that happened in Afghanistan.

They don't move as the rest of the crowd begins to disperse. Eventually, John rouses himself enough to step away from Sherlock's arms and turn around. “So,” he asks, trying to break the moment before he does something embarrassing like declaring his love and gratitude in front of everyone there. “What's the tradition you mentioned earlier?”

Sherlock puts his hands into his pockets, clearing his throat. “Four hundred years worth of tradition celebrating the capture and punishment of a terrorist.”

“Ah,” says John. One of Sherlock's mainly-true lies, then.

Sherlock glances away, across the field at where the organisers of the display are starting to clear up. “And,” he says in the off-hand tone he uses when he's saying something that's important to him but that he wants to pretend isn't, “I also thought we might start a tradition of our own.”

John can't stop the pleased smile that spreads over his face. “That sounds like an excellent plan,” he says, and Sherlock meets his eyes and returns the smile.


End file.
